by Ashley Lane
“Hey there, what can get ya’?” The bartender, an older guy with silver hair and a thick beard leans on the bar in front of me.
“Whiskey’s good, thanks.” Being on this side of the bar is surreal. I’ve never liked it and don’t think I ever will. I like being the one to scrutinize others, having that attention on me makes me nervous as fuck, as though I’m being interrogated.
“You’re not from ‘round here,” the bartender says.
I shake my head, turning the white cardboard coaster with my fingertip. “Aspen.”
“Looks like ya’ got ya’ self knocked around pretty good, you in some kinda’ trouble?” He studies my bruised face, broken nose, split lip… fucking bruised knuckles.
I shrug. “It’s nothin’. Run in with my ex-boss.”
He blows out a whistle through his teeth. “You decide to sue, let me know. Buddy of mine’s a fancy lawyer. He’ll help you out.”
That actually makes me laugh. I slam down my empty glass and gesture for another. With my second glass in hand, I scan the small dance floor where a few women are grinding up against men who are clearly too drunk to be able to get their dicks up, let alone dance.
One of the women meets my gaze and gives me a seductive wink. Just on the verge of tipsy, I decide to give it a shot.
I nod, and she tugs on the hem of her red leather mini skirt and walks across the dance floor toward me. She’s about what I would expect to be, trolling for dick in a place like this. Her bleached blonde hair is growing out, leaving her black roots showing, and when she reaches me, I notice her lipstick has smeared onto her teeth. Fucking gross.
I hate women who show no pride in their appearance, but I also have needs that hafta be met and when push comes to shove, beggars can’t be choosers. Plus, I can always fuck her from behind if I need to.
“Heya’ sexy,” she purrs into my ear. “Looks like you need some lovin.” She glances at the bartender. “Expectin’ a busy night, Phil?” she asks.
He shakes his head as he pushes another glass toward me. When the fuck did I finish the second? Or was it the third? Uncaring, I swallow the amber liquid, enjoying the smooth burn as it goes down.
“Same as usual, Trix,” he says before heading to the next customer.
Trix rubs her hands over my spread thighs. “So you wanna get out of here?”
“No.” I grip her ass and pull her closer so she’s stuck with her back against the bar, facing me. “Here’s good for me.”
She giggles. “Ooh you got a few kinks… I like it.” It’s the fake giggle all snatch-for-cash hookers have perfected. The one that’s supposed to make them look and sound sexy as fuck. The reality is, it’s nerve grating.
I slide my hands under her skirt, lifting until I can easily access her shaved pussy. She wiggles her hips, little mewling sounds escaping her lips as she urges me to continue.
Pulling her lace panties to the side, I slip two fingers into her wet, warm pussy and pump them in and out slowly. Surprisingly, watching her try to school her expression and act as though we’re merely talking, is making my dick rock-fucking-hard and I regret not leaving this shit hole with her.
As I finger her, she rocks on my hand, leaning forward and trying to kiss me. Not interested in having any of her potential clients’ dicks in my mouth, I turn my head and instead let her suck on the skin of my neck. “You like that?” I ask her.
She nods and I drag my fingers out but she latches onto my wrist and stops me. “Please, keep going… I’m almost there.”
I smirk, wanting to leave her hanging, but the whiskey is working its magic and like the nice guy I am, I give in to her.
“Tell me what you want?”
“You… your fingers.” I trace them over her lips and her tongue darts out to lick them. “Fuck me… with your fingers.”
Two fingers end up back inside Trix who is obviously a sucker for a good finger fuck, because she’s going wild, not even trying to hide what we’re doing now. The bartender, Phil, turns a blind eye and continues serving other customers who are also acting as if this is an everyday occurrence. I watch Trix’s face as I slip a third finger in, followed by a fourth, and that’s when she lets out a loud cry of pleasure and her orgasm coats my hand and drips down her legs.
“Ohhh, holy shit, that was amazing,” she says. She leans her head back, breathing heavily as I adjust her panties and tug down her skirt. “You sure you don’t wanna come back to my place?”
I shake my head and smack her ass. “Off you go. Nice to meet ya’ Trix.”
She pouts, but it quickly morphs into a smile when her eyes meet with a guy at one of the billiard tables.
Phil walks my way and throws me a small bottle of hand sanitizer.
“Fuck, man. She that bad?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Let’s just say she likes a wide variety.”
Four whiskeys and three beers later, I’m spilling my story to Phil. “They let her work the bar with a fucked-up face? Don’t they know you’re supposed to lure in the customers?” he asks.
“Nah, man… I say—I said tables. Not bar no. Still fucked up right?” He nods in agreement and I continue. “My boss—ex-boss—Angel.” I laugh at his stupid nickname. “Brings in these fuckin’ homeless girls. One’s who are like… messed up by drugs and shit. Got beaten up. And this one… Oaken…” I shake my head, my vision blurs for a second and squeeze my eyes shut.
Phil laughs again. “What the fuck kind of name is Oaken? Man, you sure this is a true story?”
“Yah… true shit. Oakley! Her name. So she shows up one day and bats her scarred eyes and Angel just gives her a fuckin’ job.” I swallow down a shot of murky white liquid that smells like dirty pussy and laugh to myself. “The fuckin’ scars man!” I trace my finger on the bar top to explain. “Like cracked or somethin’… TREES!” I shout, finally realizing it myself. “They look like roots and shit off trees.”
Phil’s face turns beet red when he lets out a howl of laughter. Tears spring to his eyes. “Tree scars?” He laughs. “Brother, you’re more drunk than I thought.” He pours two shots and takes one for himself, clinking his glass with mine. “To tree scars!”
“Fuck you, man. It’s true.” I dig into my pocket for my phone and pull it out, scrolling through my pics from yesterday. When I find a picture with Oakley in the background, I shove my phone in Phil’s face. “See, fuckin’ trees, man. Told ya’ it was true.”
His eyes widen as he looks between my phone and me, then shakes his head in disbelief. “Well fuck me! What do ya’ know. How the hell do you even get scars like that?” He puts my phone on the bar and I cross my arms with a satisfied smirk.
“Yo, Phil, you gonna serve us or what, old man?” a guy yells from the other end of the bar.
“You know Oakley?” a deep voice says from beside me.
I turn my head to see a tall muscular guy with a buzz cut. He’s wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt, and both his arms are covered in black tattoos of dragons and snakes, and a fucking tree… with roots that extend down to his fingertips. Each black jagged line splits between his fingers, and when he reaches out to introduce himself, the same black lines extend across his palm.
“Name’s Ren,” he says.
“Mal,” I reply, giving his hand a shake.
“So, the girl with the scars, you know her?” he asks.
“What’s it to ya’?”
He leans in close to me and I move back in a panic. “The fuck man, I’m not fuckin’ gay, back off.”
He shakes his head and bites the olive off the toothpick that was resting in his Martini. The fuck kind of commando military lookin’ motherfucker dresses like him and drinks a goddamn martini? His eyes narrow and he stands over me. Before I can react, he grabs the front of my shirt in his fist and lifts me from the barstool.
Ah fuck. Not again. I shift my weight, trying to get him to loosen his hold, but it’s no use, and with a glance from the corner of my eye, there’s no one here
who’s about to stop this guy. You gotta learn to keep your mouth shut, Malcolm. The words of my asshole dad play over in my mind.
“Fuck you, man, let me go.”
He sneers, his lip curling in disgust. “Listen to me you pathetic piece of shit… concentrate and pay attention to the words coming out of my mouth. I’ve got a deal for you, and there’s only one answer I’ll accept.” Ren, the fuckin’ behemoth, shoves me onto the barstool and calls for Phil to get me another whiskey.
Half the glass of whiskey is gone before my nerves begin to settle. Always in fuckin’ trouble. Yeah, Dad, you were right about one thing, I’m your son through and through, guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree after all. “What’s the deal,” I ask, refusing to look like a weak as fuck pussy in front of this guy.
He puts his finger on my phone and drags it back toward me. “The girl, Oakley… let’s just say she and I have a mutual acquaintance that would like to meet with her. I need you to get her and bring her to me.” Reaching over the bar, he calls out to Phil asking for a pen. He swipes a napkin from the pile on the bar and writes down his phone number and an address. “I don’t care how you get her to me. Beaten, bruised, bloody, it’s all the same, as long she’s got a pulse and can talk.”
“I’m a fuckin’ bartender, not a kidnapper. How the fuck do you expect me to do that?”
He raises a brow and drinks down the rest of his Martini. “That’s for you to figure it out, tough guy. So, deal?”
Fuck you! He just said there was only one answer he’d accept. “What do I get out of it?” I’m not doin’ this for nothin’ and it better fuckin’ be worth it.
Ren rubs his beefy fingers across his jaw. “Fifty K when she’s delivered alive to that address.”
Well fuck. How can I say no to that? “Deal.” We shake hands and as Ren leaves, he slaps me on the back.
“And remember, Malcolm, I know who you are now.”
I sigh and stand up to go take a piss. My vision swims and my legs shake as I make my way through the club. I can do this. Walk in, gag the bitch, put a bag over her ugly fuckin’ head, and deliver her to Ren.
Fucking simple.
CHAPTER 20
ANGEL
Jax is lying in bed, the sheet pulled up to his hips while he leans against the headboard, twisting his fingers through my hair. He uses his other hand to scroll through his phone, checking his hours for the coming week. “You okay, babe,” he asks.
“Perfect,” I reply, rolling onto my back so that I can look up at him. I trace my finger around his nipple causing it to harden and he smacks my hand away. “Hey!” I pout.
He smiles and puts his phone on the bedside table beside mine. “We’re waiting, remember?”
I groan. “Maybe we could revisit the topic? Make a few amendments?”
Jax laughs. “Come ‘ere and gimme your mouth, Madd.”
That’s one request I will never deny him. “Hmm, you taste good,” he whispers against my lips.
The shrill ring of my phone cuts our kiss short. “Damn it,” I say as Jax hands it to me.
I answer the call and hear a quiet female voice.
“Angel?” she almost whispers my name.
“Yeah—Who’s this?” I ask.
“It’s Shelly… I’m sorry to call you like this, but can you talk? I need… I think something’s wrong.”
“What do you mean you think something’s wrong?” I ask, shoving the blankets off. Jax is up now too, and he throws my underwear at me, then a pair of clean jeans and a t-shirt.
“I have to whisper. Can you hear me?”
“Shelly, spit it out. What’s going on?” Jax places a hand on the back of my neck, instantly calming me as I pull on my jeans.
“Oakley got a phone call earlier. Actually, several phone calls. I didn’t think anything about it—I mean you know telemarketers. But then she got a text, and she’s been acting really weird ever since.”
“What do you mean weird? Is she okay?” I rush out.
“Yeah but, Angel, I just walked past her room and she’s packing her bags… fast. You need to hurry—I think she’s leaving.”
FUCK! “Stall her. Do whatever you have to do but do not let her leave.”
“I’ll try, but please hurry.”
I end the call and shove my feet into my boots. “Oakley’s leaving,” I say.
Jax follows me into the kitchen and grabs his keys off the counter. “The fuck? What do you mean she’s leaving?”
We rush out the door and get into his truck. I fill him in on what Shelly told me as we drive toward her house, hoping like hell Shelly was able to stall her.
“Madd,” Jax uses the same tone he uses on unhappy customers at the garage. Like I’m a wild animal and he needs to keep me calm. “When we get there, let me talk first, okay?”
I’m about to protest, but he puts his hand on my thigh and rubs it gently. “You know how you get when you panic. Let me talk to her first, then you can take over, I promise.”
I squeeze his hand. “We can’t lose her.” In such a short amount of time this woman has become our center. A common point in which we revolve around, both of us existing and breathing all for her. So much about our future together is uncertain, but the one thing I do know is neither of us sees a future that doesn’t include Oakley.
“We’re not going to lose her. Listen to me, we’re going to go in there and see what’s going on and then we’re going to fix it. She’s not going anywhere, you hear me? She’s ours.”
Jax pulls up outside Shelly’s apartment and cuts the engine. My first reaction is to grab the door handle and sprint inside, but when Jax makes no move to get out, I inhale and squeeze his hand again. “I’m okay,” I assure him. “I’m letting you do the talking. I’m good.”
He leans across the center console and grips the back of my neck, forcing our heads together. “Let’s go get our girl.”
I knock on the front door and Shelly opens it hesitantly. When she invites us in, she nods toward the closed bedroom door we can see from the living room. “I didn’t know who else to call,” Shelly says.
“I know, you did the right thing,” I give her a hug and ask her to wait in the kitchen.
Jax knocks on the bedroom door.
“Shelly, please—don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Oakley says through the door.
When the door opens and she sees both of us waiting, her eyes grow wide and she visibly swallows. “Ah, um. I thought you guys were Shelly.” She looks over her shoulder to the bed where a suitcase is stuffed with clothes. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes dart between me and Jax. Beside me, Jax is a pillar of strength, but when he clenches his jaw, I realize he’s close to losing it. Still, Jax losing it is better than me losing it. I link our fingers together and tighten my grip on his hand.
“Where the fuck are you going, Oakley?” Jax demands. His tone holds no room for argument.
Oakley looks right at me as though she knows I’m the one who’ll cave first. Fuck she’s already got us figured out.
“Oakley,” Jax shouts, and she jumps and steps back.
“I have to leave.” She turns her back to us and no matter how desperately I want to grab her and pull her into my arms, I trust Jax and I know if anyone can fix this, it’s him.
The front door slams and I’m thankful for Shelly being smart enough to take Logan out of the house.
Oakley shakes her head. “You don’t understand, Jax. I can’t stay here, he’ll find—”
In that instant, every shred of control I had, unravels and disappears. Three steps is all it takes to put me in front of Oakley. She backs up against the wall, her hands by her sides.
“The fuck do you mean he’ll find you? Who the fuck is after you, Oakley? And don’t even think about lying or so help me I will spank your cute bare ass until it’s burning bright with my handprint.”
Eyes wide, she stares at me as though I’ve got two heads. Just as quickly, her stare of shock turns t
o one of utter determination. She shoves her way past me, shouting. “Spank me? Who the hell do you think you are? It’s none of your goddamn business! Now get out of my bedroom.”
Using my height and size to my advantage, I crowd her. “Now is not the time or place, but so help me, Oakley I will not hesitate to show you exactly who I am to you.” I growl. “Now, you’re not leaving this house until you tell us what the fuck is going on or I will tie to you the goddamn bed and force it out of you…”
Fuuuck man. So not the time or place for sexual innuendos.
“Oakley,” Jax says, his tone gentle now. “We just wanna help you. Please, tell us what’s goin’ on.”
Sighing, her shoulders slump and she crosses her arms around herself, resigned. “Fine. I’ll tell you what’s going on, but then I am leaving…” She gives each of us a death glare. “And you will not stop me.”
I shrug. “Fine.”
She jolts, not expecting me to agree and turns her attention to Jax, and he nods in agreement. We’re good liars we need to be.
“My real name is Elizabeth-Oakley Manningham. My father’s name is Chad Manningham, but he goes by—”
My attempt to school my features is a dismal failure. Her real name! And her father is... “Holy Saber.” I was not expecting that.
“Yeah, so you’ve heard of him, right?” Oakley says.
Jax’s brow furrows in confusion, and I explain, “Holy Sabre. Guns—Trafficking. The Preacher turned arms dealer?”
“Holy fuck!” he says before he slumps down on the end of the bed.
I urge Oakley to continue. “I was ten years old when I realized what he did for a living. Or should I say, what he really did for a living.” She lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “I thought he was the best dad in the whole world. We’d go to church and listen to him preach, trust in his words… in him.” She pulls up her sleeves and traces the scars on her arm with her fingertips. “Mom hated it. We’d have these guys come to the house all hours of the night and day demanding to see Dad.”
